


The Portsmouth Road

by shirogiku



Series: Root Causes & Shaky Foundations [7]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: 18th Century Nerdery, Cute Marrieds, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Horseback Riding, Inns, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2016, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Road Trips, Sharing a Room, Still Too Much Plot, The Royal Navy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6931957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas and James on their way to James's ship (the missing scenes from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6632980"><i>HMS Royal Anne</i></a>).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Portsmouth Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts), [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/gifts).



> So, I've finally figured out how they got there! A lot of feels and frills and not much explicit wanking))

Travel in England, as Thomas’s friends from the Continent would attest, was an adventure in its own right; the phrase ‘arduous business’ would also be used. All except for a countess from Paris to whom nothing bothersome ever seemed to happen on her journeys. There was no question of impinging on the sanctity of Miranda’s social appointments by taking the carriage, so Thomas was inspired to forego hiring a post-chaise and brave the Portsmouth Road like true hardy Englishmen. Celeste and Clemence were a noble pair of French saddle horses, bred specifically for pleasure riding.

“You aren’t prejudiced against equines, I should hope?” he asked James, belatedly remembering that McGraw was no scion of the squirearchy with a country-house childhood. “These are particularly kind and amenable creatures.”

James assured him of having a certain rapport with the animals. And indeed, his posture - while not perfect - projected ease and confidence.

“Oh, you _must_ tell me how it has come to be!” Thomas cried.

“I have been stationed in the West Indies,” James replied, puzzled by the sudden interest.

Miranda, who would not have missed their departure even in the middle of the night, murmured in Thomas’s ear: “Well, well. Look whose careful maneuvering has finally borne fruit.” The contrast between James’s blue coat and firm, white-clad thigh and the mare’s glistening chestnut flank was as much for Miranda’s viewing pleasure as it was for Thomas’s.

She gave Thomas a nudge - the sooner they set out, the sooner they would return - and, in a louder voice, told Lieutenant McGraw to bring Thomas back just like he had found him. She waved them off with a white handkerchief, as though they were off to battle.

The weather permitting, as was the case, the countryside could be very pleasant. Bad and miry patches could be circumvented, and the shortcuts through the heaths was where Thomas could with full authority take the lead. Once, however, James’s frowns led him to temptation, and he pretended having guided them into a bog. No curses escaped McGraw’s lips, but he was _thinking_ them.

Godalming marked the midway point to their destination. It was a market town that made much of its coaching traffic. James rejected the largest establishments such as the Angel or the Great George out of hand in favour of humbler accommodations quite out of the way.

“Not to doubt your taste, my dear,” said Thomas, his affectionate form of address being entirely an accident, “but what is wrong with staying in the more popular places?”

Slightly taken aback, McGraw recovered in a moment. “The post boys and the underlings of the stables, for one. Highwaymen like to employ them for leads on their wealthy patrons.”

Thomas blinked. “And do they really inform on their own guests?”

James smiled wryly. “How else would those bandits find them so unerringly?”

As much as Thomas relished the mental images of James fending off a whole band by himself - in theory, very in theory - he deferred to his judgement. “Are you personally acquainted with  your inn’s owner?”

“You could say that,” James admitted. “It is always prudent to forge such acquaintances.”

The Swan was a delightful little gem, and Mrs Fuller, brewed her own beer. Thomas was more partial to wine, but he would not dream of reject such warm hospitality, though the unspoken communication between her and James gave him an unwelcome twinge that he did not care to analyse. The cheese was better than the beef. As they were leaving, on the following morning, Thomas was presented with a gift of worsted gloves. The stable lad was the widow’s own son, and try as Thomas might, he could detect no traces of any transactions with the other side of the law.

While Thomas consulted his maps, James braced himself for an argument.

“Oh, James, I _swear_ I am not planning to ride into some highwaymen woods!” James eyed him warily. “And on that note, you must remind me to show you my full collection of Hamshipshire maps. John Ogilby's survey is such marvellous work! Also, what do you think of turnpikes? I expect it shall be some time before they get here. Do they help maintain the order or are they another form of daylight robbery?”

James chuckled. “ _Moonlight_ robbery if you travel by moonlight.” He added on a more serious note: “The way things stand, a turnpike could hardly make things worse.”

Thus, they avoided the most villainous spots, finishing their journey by nightfall, and without too many detours. Thomas was wearing wildflowers tucked into his coat, and James had not been spared the same fate. The second inn was not without its charm either, but it did not strike Thomas as _James's_ usual place, as if he were in hiding.

“The Stag and the Lion,” he repeated the name. “It sounds like a fable.”

James was polishing his boots, not trusting a domestic with the job. “About a strange pair?”

Thomas chuckled. “Indeed. Let us say, a lion escaped from the Tower into the forest. A proud creature, he asked for no one’s help, so he went a while without admitting that he was hopelessly lost. One day, he came across a stag who had his horns trapped in the branches of a large tree. The stag twisted and turned, but there was nothing that he could do to free himself.”

“So the lion ate him.”

Thomas huffed. “No! He heard a pack of dogs barking nearby and a hunter’s horn.”

“Ah, an unlikely alliance against a common enemy. They never last, though.”

“This one did,” Thomas insisted stubbornly. “And neither of them became a hunting trophy.”

James was not terribly convinced by that resolution. On the road, sharing a room was a wholly impersonal business, and he would not have been discomfited by the company of some amiable strangers. But they were alone and James’s bed was both too close and too far from his.

“You must be so used to cramped quarters,” Thomas murmured. “Practically fitting yourself into a box.”

James opened his eyes, turning to look at him. “Do you find that objectionable?”

“Your living conditions? I shall see them tomorrow. As to any other meaning, I rather envy you.” He smiled in earnest. “I wish I had your and Miranda’s skill of grounding yourself firmly in any given situation.” Instead, he got carried away building castles in the sky.

“I have never been to one,” McGraw replied at length. “I should appreciate the view.”

They spoke more of anything and everything - their joint plans; the new dockyards and other construction projects in the port; the Parliament and that villain Cromwell; the war and when it would end. James laid out the Fleet’s position in the home bases, Mediterranean and the Americas, never too far from the forefront of his mind. If Thomas needed grounding in reality, then James needed to be pulled out of it sometimes.

They had an early start, with McGraw showing Thomas the view from Ports Down Hill - and what a glorious sight, all those ships in the first light of the morning. The tour of McGraw’s ship was a success, even though Thomas could have done without his friend hiding the crew from him..

“It was for their benefit as much as yours, Thomas,” James told him over dinner in their room. “As to your wish to dine aboard when the Admiral is _away_ , why, you should have fairly killed the cook!”

Thomas sighed - all that _ceremony_ , turning the simplest things into complicated rituals. “I meant nothing by it.” They had ham and mutton and salad and fine big potatoes with salt butter, and the coffee was tolerable, though once again, they should have brought their own wine. Come to think of it, Miranda had mentioned something... “Oh, I am such an unforgivable fool!” He told James about the saddlebag that he had somehow misplaced along the way.

James laughed for a whole minute, informing him oh-so-charitably that he would not survive a day in the Navy.

“You, sir, are a harsh critic.” But Thomas’s pride could not be wounded by such an obvious truth. “Tell me, what is your favourite dish?”

Like always when asked a direct personal question, James paused to deliberate, as if shuffling through various sets of answers for the most appropriate one. Thomas did not speak plainly just to anyone, but McGraw’s circumspection reached an almost absurd degree sometimes.

“Please,” he implored. “None of that. The first thing that comes to your mind, out with it!”

James gave him a little smile. “Fish, then. There is nothing like freshly fried fish on an empty belly.” He hesitated. “And saffron cake and pasties Grandfather used to send me. They were like a whole meal.”

“A true mariner’s answer! Mine is apple pie, fresh from the oven.”

Their late dinner passed without interruptions, and then the tea was served. Thomas seldom if ever saw McGraw so truly at ease. Thomas took his bath right before turning in for the night, while James was downstairs, hopefully not getting in trouble.

He sighed and closed his eyes, relaxing as the water went from near-scalding to a more agreeable temperature.

_“You have never thought of going to sea? As a boy, perhaps?”_

_“I understand it is a universal naval belief that a boy can be trained to do anything where a grown man is beyond all hope, but no, the idea has never held any appeal.”_

It was uncharitable of him, but he _could_ imagine Father punishing him with sending him to sea had his transgressions in Eton come to light. He and James’s paths intersecting so early in their lives. After the initial misery, provided that Thomas had not fallen off the mast to his death, they would have become friends. Young James, already so well-informed and eager to forge a useful connection. But then it would have blossomed into something real, something more genuine. Thomas pulling him into a dark corner and pressing their lips together hurriedly.

He thought about James’s hands steering him around, so masterful and unyielding. Those hands on him, with James’s eyes wide open and unafraid. There should be no room for fear between them, or shame. And while this act did call Thomas’s moral character into question, with James so wholly ignorant of his fantasies - or _was_ he - it was preferable to open lustful stares.

His imagination flitted back to the ungentle swaying of James’s bed box. McGraw _should_ have leaned into him and covered Thomas’s body with his. There it was, Thomas’s fingers squeezing his own thigh, and he could no longer deny the urgency of what had been building up in him ever since their first meeting. Nor could he channel it into anything else.

His thighs parted, making room for his hand. His breath came out in short gasps, and he arched in the tub slightly, splashing some water around. A moment later, he sagged back down with a fresh image burning through him: James, walking in on him.

He gripped the tub with both hands. He would never have it like that, but in this private realm, all was allowed, or at least nothing was forbidden. James would be stricken, unable to flee or make light of what he was seeing.

“Come here,” Thomas would murmur. And if James refused, he would stand up, putting himself on display. He dared say, for a man of projects, he was not unattractive.

He would approach James slowly, leaving wet footprints on the floor. He would finally undo James’s coat buttons one by one, the top ones with his teeth. And he would guide James’s hand to touch him and close around his length in a firm hold.

He swallowed a moan, the fantasy faltering or a moment. What would James _say_ ? He would not laugh, nor would he show disgust - but what _did_ he want to hear from James?

Perhaps nothing at all. Perhaps the look in James’s eyes would speak louder than any words. He would surge towards Thomas and capture his mouth in a hard kiss, giving expression to the passion brewing between them.

The force of it made him quiver even now.  James would mistake it for the chills and throw his coat around Thomas before pulling off his shirt and revealing his beautiful freckled shoulders and arms. Miranda had told him of the profusion.

The scene changed to the comfortable familiarity of their bedroom, with Miranda’s fingers gliding down James’s body, helping Thomas with unwrapping their Christmas present. She, too, would look quite fetching in that coat. She would pinch James’s nipples teasingly while Thomas took his hands and guided him towards the silk sheets.

Now Thomas was back to the shared room and James was undressed and flushed all over and so so eager to please… He came undone trying to hold onto the picture of James’s face in ecstasy, too fleeting.

There was a knock on the door. “Thomas?” At the sound of James’s voice, he bit back a moan, his heart beating frantically in his chest. “Are you finished?”

Laughter bubbled in his throat. He would not be finished with McGraw in a decade, he suspected, if ever.

It took him a moment to recover his wits and another to regain his ability to speak: “Most certainly not!” And not in the least because his mind generously supplied him with the scene of poor unsuspecting James using the same bathwater...


End file.
